


Black Hats

by Arien



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, F/M, London, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1394866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arien/pseuds/Arien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The citizens of dystopian, future London wear many hats. Some hats are black, some are white. It depends which side you’re looking from. Now and again, just sometimes, hats change colour in the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [timelordgriff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelordgriff/gifts).



> This is an experiment, something I've been playing around with during quiet periods at work. I honestly don't know if I intend to even finish this: but I thought since I'm messing about I might as well make it Smillan!
> 
> Disclaimer: This is story purely fantasy - no disrespect is intended. I use real names of the actors but in my mind they are more characters cast in a different story. I do not mean to suggest that anything in this story actually happened; or believe that the actors/characters in question think or behave in any way depicted in this fiction.

The moon was so bright that it split the seams of clouds. It pushed against the ice, seeking and spilling through more cracks than there were stars. High above the densely packed clouds it shone resplendent, dazzling in a world beyond sight. Try as it might it could only offer a dull glow, a reminder (I am here!) to the bruised city below.

How the rain lashed the city; punishing and relentless, abusing everything its long, cold fingers could reach. The river swelled, threatening banks normally out of reach with icy kisses. It hammered the surface so hard that only reason said the rain was falling, for it seemed to rise from the river to explode in the sky. The sky, charcoal and mean, streaked with the faint promise of the distant moon and cluttered with clouds.

Parklands were transformed to marshy bogs, drowning under more water than it could ever need. The paved streets told the rain there was nowhere to go. Rain ran wild, streaming, thirsty sewers swallowing up all excess.

And it was cold. The rain was bad enough, but the accompanying wind sucked breath from bodies and snatched heat. It tore off hats and tugged at scarves, surging at faces and inverting umbrellas. Those were now all but useless and even dangerous given the intermittent forks of white lightning.

The high heels were a bad choice. Rain had long since leaked inside and the toes of her glossy red shoes were swimming in freezing water. To her, it felt like a litre, but logic insisted it could be no more than a few millimetres. The points of her heels clicked in puddles, splashing mud up the back seams of her stockings. She dreamed of jeans and knee-high boots. Her sheer black cocktail dress did nothing to trap warmth. The coat she wore over everything might’ve been better help were she not saturated. It was a heavy, wet weight, but it did manage to shield her from the worst of the wind.

At the crossroads she checked her watch. The face blurred as a fresh raindrop splattered across the crystal. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late, and nobody waited for messages. It wasn’t safe. That meant she’d likely be sent out again and there was no hope of the weather clearing tonight. She just wanted to deliver the message and climb into bed.

The light went green through the downpour. A sea of bodies surged forward on either side of the street. She snaked between them, attempting to avoid contact, taking points off herself every time she brushed somebody. She also avoided the minimal shelter offered by shop awnings, knowing they’d only shower her with gutter-water. She stayed with the pack until the pub whose name was whispered came into view.

She knew it; it was in her neighbourhood. Only a few months ago she’d celebrated a thirtieth birthday there. Not her own. Thirty seemed a lot of hope for.

The woman peeled away from the pack and went down a side alley. She did not slow, nor look over her shoulder, nor give any indication that there was anything strange about what she was doing. Her instincts were pretty good and she was quite sure she hadn’t been followed, but it paid to be careful. Careful kept her alive.

She eased past shiny, wet bins and headed for the courtyard. In warmer months the pub opened the back door and encouraged a beer garden. Those doors were shut fast until summer. She could see a halo of golden light around the opening.

 _On time._ For a few moments she thought she was alone, that her contact had not come. Well, she wouldn’t wait. It wasn’t worth the risk. She scanned the small courtyard, peering into shadows, just to be sure.

She wasn’t alone.

Her contact was slumped against the door. His chin was tucked down to his chest, the stiff coat collar obscuring his features. His arms were tucked around himself and his legs stretched out. Fear. Her contact was almost certainly dead. Nobody breathing would be able to sit like that in the rain. She looked around again, wildly, making sure she truly was alone. She took a deep breath. There mustn’t be any panic. If she ran, if she panicked, someone would notice.

Then the body groaned.

Her good sense still pleaded with her to go. But she was not so heartless as to leave a dying man alone, especially since they were on the same side. It was, of course, possible that her contact had hurt this man and left – but that made no sense. She was on time. He would’ve concealed himself and waited until the deadline before abandoning the mission. This was her contact all right, waiting with his last breath.

Tense, she squatted beside him. She was ready for any sudden movement. This was folly. It would be impossible to save him if he wasn’t already beyond that. Whoever hurt him might come back. She ought to have fled the moment she saw him.

She couldn’t.

“Hello?”

She touched his cold, wet cheek. She pushed her fingers down further, under his collar, where a little warmth yet clung to his skin. To her surprise, his pulse was relatively strong. For a fleeting moment this distressed her – it was so much more complicated, now – and then she was revolted by her own callousness. A man might live. This was a good thing.

“Hello? How are you hurt?”

He groaned again. With the greatest difficulty he raised his head. He had short, brown, bristly hair, as though it were growing out from a close crop. Beads of rain clung to it. His features were angular and strong.

“You have a message,” he managed to utter.

She shook her head once. “Don’t worry about that now.”

“Message,” he repeated. 

She looked down quickly as she felt his fingers close over her upper arm. “What happened to you?”

With his other hand, he tugged open his coat. She could see a dark stain against the lighter fabric of his shirt. She reached for it, trying to equate the wound with reality, but he weakly flinched away.

“Got shot,” he muttered. “S’fine. Just the message and … go.”

“I live nearby,” she assured him, swallowing a nervous lump in her throat. This was madness, but she could not take a man with a bullet wound to the hospital. The consequences were not worth thinking about. “Let’s get you inside.”

“Can’t. Just message. Hospital…”

“Forget the message!” She snapped, caught up in her rescue mission. “And forget the hospital. They’ll put you back together just to pull you apart. Come on, you’ve got to stand.”

It wasn’t easy, but she helped him to his feet. He was taller and built more powerfully than she’d given him credit for. He was so heavy that the effort of lifting him had her groaning aloud. And it was no better for him; he grit his teeth through the pain and panted once on his feet. She wondered if he’d pass out. There would be absolutely nothing she could do for him if he did. She stared at his face, imagining him pale and sweaty.

“Okay? Okay?”

“No, got shot.”

“I know … I know you did. You’re in lots of pain, I know that too. Can you walk a ways? You can lean on me. We’ll go slow, like old drunks.”

“Or lovers.”

“If it’ll keep you on your feet.”

She put her arm around his waist and supported him as they began to move. Beyond the mouth of the alley she could see many people walking. It would be easy to blend in with them.

He started poorly but got better; steadier, more direct with where he put his feet. Yet it did not last. They’d only made it halfway in their rainy trek before his weight began to press on her again, making it difficult to find a point of balance. They staggered on, two soaking wet strangers, drunks or lovers.

Only when they were inside her building did she realise how heavily he was breathing. Oh, god. This was all kinds of stupid. What if he died on her, what would she do with a dead body? The Revival wasn’t going to like helping her shift one of those …

She pushed him against the elevator wall and punched in her floor. She had to hold one palm against his good shoulder to steady him. He was holding his hand to the wound.

“Does it hurt a lot?” She asked, wondering if her mediocre first aid could handle this.

“No,” he groaned.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“You ask stupid questions.”

“Please don’t die on me,” she said, frantic. “I don’t know what I’ll do if you die.”

“Charming. Attached to me already?” He’d taken on a dreadful, grey pallor.

“I don’t know what I’d do with your body.”

His laughter ended in a groan of agony. She wasn’t laughing. He didn’t look like he was about to die, but she’d learned not to count her chickens.

Her flat was small and functional. It opened from the corridor into an l-shaped living space and kitchen. On the right was a single door leading to the bedroom, the bathroom in a separate space beyond. She used her spare hand to turn on the light, glad she had pulled down the blinds before she went out.

“Let’s get your coat off. I need your help,” she said, guiding him into the bedroom. “I don’t want you getting pneumonia on top of everything else.”

He gave a terrible, terrible cry of agony as they worked off his coat. It froze the marrow in her bones. Afraid he was going to collapse, she quickly sat him on the bed and folded him on to the mattress. He was barely conscious. 

She peeled off her own coat and flung it over a chair. Dark-red hair clung to her neck. She refused to let fear immobilise her and she acted quickly, snatching a yellow-handled pair of scissors from the dresser. She cut away his shirt and light jacket, discarding the scraps, grateful there was no heavy fabric to get through. She also cut away an empty chest holster – she wondered what had happened to the gun.

“Oh,” she murmured when she saw the oozing wound. The bullet puncture was in his upper shoulder, the blood a sickening contrast to his white flesh. She pressed a handful of torn, wet shirt against it and took a ragged breath.

This was definitely beyond her.

“It’s not so bad,” he managed hoarsely, surprising her.

“I need help,” she shook her head, hating herself for getting teary. Now wasn’t the time to get emotional. She didn’t even know him! She hadn’t thought this through, and now she was convinced she couldn’t help him. He was going to bleed to death, or go into shock and never recover. All in her bloody bed.

“I’m going to call in a favour and get help.”

“No, don’t!” He said with surprising force. “No one can know I’m here.”

“This is too much for me. I don’t know anything about bullets, or – or fixing people – “

“What’s your name? What’s your name?”

“Karen.”

“No one can know I’m here, Karen.”

“I’m Revival. This is safe.”

“No. No one.”

She was losing him again. “Okay … okay,” she whispered. 

He relaxed at once. He was so exhausted that it only took the simple reassurance to soothe him into sleep.

Karen counted to ten and moved. She grabbed her phone out of her soaking wet bag and immediately phoned for help she could trust. It was an agonising fifteen minute wait for Arthur to arrive. She kept pressure on the man’s wound, too afraid to move again even to remove his shoes. This was dangerous madness, and regrets chased one another back and forth inside her head. He had to live.

Arthur let himself in and rushed into the bedroom, backpack in hand. From experience, Karen knew it was stuffed with medical supplies, many of which were contraband. He gaped at the man.

“I’ve never seen him before … Karen, who is he?”

“I – I don’t really know. Don’t ask. It’s better if you don’t ask.”

“Karen…”

“Please just help him!” She burst out. “It’ll be worse if he dies!”

He shook his head but approached the bed, unzipping the bag. No lecture followed. Arthur knew it was often better not to ask questions, and Karen knew he would always save lives where he could. She started talking very fast.

“He was shot. I don’t know what with. It happened before I got there. He was talking up until a little while ago. I was able to walk him up here. Is he gonna be okay? Arthur?”

“Bullet’s still inside. Doesn’t look too deep. I can get it out. Why’re you in an evening gown?”

“I was … busy.”

“Uh huh.”

The man on the bed groaned as Arthur gently probed his injury. He quickly measured out a dose of something Karen could only assume to be like morphine. He injected it into the man’s arm, who fell silent once more.

Karen was not a nurse. However, she’d assisted Arthur often enough in quiet, emergency surgeries to know what to do. She brought hot water and clean towels to sterilise. She held a ceramic bowl out for Arthur to drop the bullet fragments he painstakingly tweezed out. She helped Arthur wash, stitch and bandage the stranger and, finally, cut away the rest of his clothes and cover him with blankets.

“I’ll send someone over to stay with you. I have to get back. I’m on call, there’s nobody else tonight.”

“No, don’t, I’ll be fine,” Karen interrupted. “You know I will be. He didn’t want anyone else … maybe he had a reason.”

“And you don’t know who he is? Karen, do you have any idea how dangerous – “

“Yeah. I do. I bought him here, he’s my responsibility.”

“I’ll send someone over.”

“No, Arthur, please! Look at him. He’s no danger to me. He can’t even move.”

Arthur checked his watch. He was on a tight schedule and other patients were depending on him to come back. Reluctantly, he began measuring out doses of painkiller and placing them on the dresser. Then, he added a small plastic jar of antibiotics. “Just in case.”

“Thanks, Arthur.”

He sighed. “Be alive tomorrow morning, all right? Think about reporting this in. I’ll be back early tomorrow. We’ll see how he is and find a way to move him, if we can. He can’t stay here with you.”

“I don’t want him to. Arthur,” she seized his arm as he started to leave. She knew only too well how reckless and stupid this was – and she was involving him in her insanity. She swept him into a tight hug. “I couldn’t leave him there. Dying alone. In the rain.”

He was frustrated with her, but got it instantly. He could no more have abandoned the man than she could. He kissed her forehead.

“Just be careful.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I’m trusting you.”

“I won’t. You’re a complete idiot, but I won’t.”

“Thank you.”

Karen walked Arthur to the door and closed it tight, locking it electronically and manually. She shivered. It was time to shed these wet clothes and get herself into a hot shower. Karen looked in on her unconscious stranger as she gathered up her clothes. He was completely out, chest rhythmically rising and falling. The bandage was clean and bright around his shoulder and upper arm. She watched him for a few moments before locking herself in the bathroom. She swore when she was finished she was going to go through every stitch of clothing he possessed. Somewhere, there would be a clue. 

She would find out who he was.


	2. II

Karen felt too vulnerable with her strange charge to put on pyjamas. She hung her wet (but perhaps not ruined, on closer inspection) dress over the side of the bath to dry out and finally pulled on the jeans she’d been dreaming of. A plain black t-shirt followed and a knobbly, cosy cardigan knitted in dark red, orange and navy.

She carefully opened the bedroom door. The man’s position was unchanged. Despite her apprehension she felt a wave of fresh pity. Somebody might be worrying about him right now. Waiting for him to come home, staring out at rain-drenched streets. He would not walk down them tonight.

Now that the emergency had been dealt with, Karen could take a moment to properly study him. The man was late twenties, early thirties. The drugs Arthur administered relaxed his face, giving him a peaceful appearance she doubted he wore very often. He had what Karen’s mother called ‘worry lines’ marking his forehead and the corners of his eyes. He was too young for those to be age and memory. She bent over him. The light caught an old scar running out of his hairline, splitting the scalp to such a degree that it parted his hair. Her gaze travelled down his jaw and neck. A dark spot collected underneath the white bandage on his shoulder.

With a shock, she realised she could not remember the last time a near-naked man had been in her bed. Now that was just _sad_! She moistened her lips and drew the covers a little higher.

Karen knelt by the pile of torn clothing. She tossed the blood-soaked rags of clothing into a plastic bag. She lifted his coat. It was very heavy – Karen assumed the weight of water it had absorbed was to blame. In the inside pocket she made a few interesting discoveries.

The first was a damaged brown leather wallet. Karen realised at once what had happened. The bullet had struck here first, then gone on to embed itself in his shoulder. She fleetingly wondered at what angle the gun had been fired to achieve this and then dismissed that train of thought. She was no forensic expert and it wouldn’t help her anyway. It had probably saved his life and, unfortunately, precious ID might’ve been destroyed in the bullet’s wake.

She opened the wallet. There didn’t appear to be any ID inside at all. That wasn’t smart of him, she thought, tutting at the stranger. He should’ve at least had a fake. She’d anticipated a fake. Any name was better than none. There were three loyalty cards from various coffee shops but none of them had been stamped more than once. Wrecked twenty pound notes were in the fold, no coins in the zippered compartment.

None of that was peculiar. Family photos, something to make him real would’ve been nice, but given who she was (pretty) sure he was it was unsurprising. 

In the lower pocket she found his phone. Karen glanced apprehensively at the man and pressed a button. It was locked, of course. She gathered it up with his tattered wallet and placed his belongings in the dresser drawer. The bag of ruined clothes was sealed and thrown away.

“Good night, John Smith,” Karen murmured, half-closing the bedroom door. She walked to the window and climbed on the armchair. Her feet sunk into the cushion. Reaching up, she closed her fingers around wood chimes to silence them before unhooking them from the ceiling. She returned to the bedroom and attached the chimes to the outside door handle. If Mr Smith mustered the strength for a night time stroll, then these would give her a little warning.

Karen made up a bed for herself on the sofa. She kept on her clothes and the light. She switched on the TV and set her alarm to wake her in four hours – she knew there was a good chance she’d fall asleep.

Karen woke groggily and grabbed her phone hours later. The display showed 2:10. She turned off the beeping alarm and kicked back the blanket, staggering to her feet. Time to administer a little more medicine to Mr Smith! The chimes tinkled as she entered. Her stranger was still fast asleep. Trusting Arthur’s knowledge that this stuff wouldn’t kill him, she gave Mr Smith a second dose. Karen reset her alarm and went back to sleep on the sofa.

It wasn’t raining quite so hard when Karen woke again. It pattered pathetically against the window pane, promising another dull and miserable day. It was after six.

This time, her guest was awake. He looked terrible. It was obvious he was in a great deal of pain.

“Not a hospital,” he said, his voice cracked and dry.

“I told you, no hospital,” Karen replied. She went past the bed to fill a glass of water from the bathroom sink. “You know they’d report you. It’d be better to die than be reported.”

“Is that water?”

“Yeah. I’ll help you.”

She sat as carefully as possible on the side of the bed. He grunted in pain as the mattress shifted. 

“I’m gonna put my hand here, can you tip your head forward?” She scooped her hand around the back of his neck, moving it up to support him as he leaned forward. Very carefully, she tipped the glass and trickled water past his dry lips.

“You’re Karen,” he said when he’d drunk the water. His glazed eyes were roaming the room. She wondered how much of this he would remember later.

“That’s right. What’s your name?”

“Matt.”

“Nice to meet you.” She reached for the next dose. “You need more rest.”

“I don’t want any more of that,” he weakly protested.

“You need it. You need to rest.”

“I don’t, seriously…”

Karen laid her palm against the centre of Matt’s chest to keep him still. “Don’t make trouble for me.”

“Don’t give me that, Karen …”

Something fierce kicked up inside Karen’s soul. “I pulled you off the street. I’m taking a huge risk looking after you. Out of – out of the goodness of my heart! So if I say you need this, then you need this, and you just shut up!”

“…can I have some more water, first?”

Karen eyed him suspiciously, but headed for the bathroom all the same. A great cry of pain came from the bedroom while she was filling the glass. She rushed to the doorway and looked in. Matt was clutching his shoulder.

“What did you do? Did you try to get up?”

“Thought – easier – “

“You can’t move right now, you idiot. Stay put!”

Satisfied he had learned a lesson, she skewered him with a stern look and went back to the glass. As before, she sat down carefully once she returned and helped him to drink.

“Where’re my clothes?” Matt mumbled, finally realising he was down to just his jocks.

“Had to cut them off you. Sorry. I’ll find you something else to wear when you’re ready to get up.”

“My coat?”

“Coat’s okay. I hung it up over there.” She nodded to the chair.

Matt lay still for a moment. He looked very out of it – Arthur’s meds were powerful. They might’ve been wearing off but he still looked spaced out. “Why’d you bring me here?”

Karen put the glass on the bedside table. “I’d like to think that if I was in your position, someone would take care of me. Karma. Maybe this is your karma.”

“I don’t think so. But thank you. Karen. Thank you and please don’t give me any more of that stuff.”

“I said not to make trouble,” Karen prepared another dose. She gripped his arm to hold him steady and jabbed. It was much clumsier than the dose she’d given when he was unconscious. He hissed in pain.

“I could bear it,” he mumbled.

“Well, I don’t know who you are. This is also for my benefit, thanks.”

“Prisoner…”

“Only until you can get up and go.”

She watched him fade back to sleep. These were blissfully quick-acting, strong drugs. She sent Arthur silent thanks. He should be here soon, she realised. So she left, partially closing the bedroom door, and went into the kitchen. She switched on the percolator. Soon, the aroma of roasting coffee beans filled the flat. She made herself a couple of slices of toast, spreading them with plum jam. Karen had just managed to get through breakfast when her telephone rang.

She found the handset between a box of tissues and a pile of old books. She thought it would be Arthur to phone so early. It wasn’t. Rather, it was Clary, whom she pretended to know better than she did for appearances’ sake. His casual message was heaped with easily deciphered hidden meaning. 

Arthur had been sent away. He wasn’t coming.

“He says not to keep the leftovers from last night, you’ll get food poisoning,” Clary added. “Go out for dinner instead.”

Karen thanked Clary and hung up the phone. Get out, leave Matt, report it in. That was Arthur’s message. But even as she heard it she knew it was not so simple. Why did he have to get himself posted right now? She’d thought they could discuss the situation together over a second breakfast, perhaps gently interrogate Matt (she could be the bad cop!) and then decide what was to be done. Karen had promised not to report this … but she had not intended that to be a permanent fix. Some misunderstanding was afoot. Matt would explain why she simply couldn’t report it, and it would make sense.

Unless…

Well, he was harmless right now. She would just have to ask the questions herself and work out what was to be done with him. He’d be gone by tonight. He wasn’t hurt that badly.

When the four hours were almost up, she prepared Matt a light breakfast. She boiled, peeled, sliced and seasoned an egg, smearing it over a slice of buttered toast. She made a small cup of coffee, little more than a taster, just to get him going. He was awake when she returned, his eyes slightly glazed.

“Karen, right?”

“Good memory.”

“You’re hard to forget. Breakfast in bed?”

“You’ve got to be hungry.”

“Could really use the loo.”

That proved even more difficult than the walk to her flat. He was tangled in painkillers and twice she almost toppled over. However, she at last got him into the bathroom and manoeuvred him into a position where he could take care of things himself. She waited outside and eased him back into bed when he was done. 

Breakfast did wonders for Matt. He perked up at once and asked for more. She prepared him toast and jam but refused him more coffee.

“It’s a diuretic,” she explained.

“So?”

“Means it makes you lose more liquid than you keep. So you’re sticking to plain old water. And take these.” She dropped a pair of orange pills on his plate.

“What’re those?”

“Antibiotics.” Matt still looked doubtful. “If I wanted you dead, I just would’ve left you in the rain.”

That seemed to make sense to Matt, so he swallowed both pills with no further argument. 

“Who shot you?”

“I wondered when you’d start asking questions.”

“Well, it was hard to ask them when you were unconscious, Matt.”

He stiffened. His eyes flashed in panic and suspicion. “How do you know my name?”

“…you told me. This morning.”

Matt relaxed slightly but the tension didn’t leave his body. “This morning. No more of those drugs, okay? I don’t care how painful it is.”

He’d have more, Karen was determined of that. But she didn’t want to argue when she had questions to ask.

“Who shot you?”

“Did you bandage me up?”

“Yeah. That was all me.”

“How do you know how to do this stuff?”

Karen didn’t trust Matt, so she wasn’t going to give him Arthur. Instead, she gave him Arthur’s story. “I used to be a doctor.”

“But not anymore?”

“War got in the way. Now I’ve answered your questions. I’ve given you my bed and my food, my medical expertise – “

Matt stirred with memory. “You said, last night, that you didn’t know anything – “

“I panicked,” Karen lied, trying not to do that now. “I wasn’t a surgeon. I was a GP. But I did all right. Now you need to start talking.”

He took a moment to look down at his shoulder, perhaps reminding himself of that night. “I don’t know who it was,” he admitted. “It was dark. I was waiting for – you, I guess – under this shitty little awning. Someone came around the corner. They said nothing – they were expecting me. I reached for my gun but as soon as I got it loose this other person fired. My gun just went flying, I fell back against the pub … and there you were.”

Karen fell silent. She didn’t know what questions could be asked. Finally, she simply turned the focus to his injury. “It’s not so bad. It went through your wallet before it struck you. Keep taking those antibiotics and you’ll heal fast.”

“You went through my coat?” His sharp gaze levelled her.

“Is it so bad wanting to know whose life I was saving? It’s just over there.” She pointed to the coat on the chair, drying out.

“What was the message?”

Karen shrugged. “Window’s expired, Matt. You know as well as I do: you don’t talk about it after the window expires.”

“But if I was very curious..?” He tried what was probably his most heartbreaking smile on her. It didn’t work.

“Forget it. Is there someone you want to call?”

“Did you tell anyone I was here?’

“No,” she lied.

“So you didn’t even tell your handler you hadn’t delivered the message?”

“I have no way of contacting that person. They’ll call me soon.”

“What will you say to them?”

Karen shifted. “I don’t know. The truth. I wasn’t going to let you die, but I’m not gonna lie for you. I should change your bandage,” Karen said. 

She left him alone to fetch fresh bandages from the kitchen. She didn’t think she was doing a very good job of questioning him. What was she meant to ask? She had no clever interrogation skills. She could only go on her gut instinct, and that told her she could trust him.

His eyes were on her when she returned. She carefully unwound his current bandages. When she removed the sterile padding over the wound she suppressed a wince. The skin was discoloured, purplish bruising encircling the hole. Arthur’s clever stitches held it together well. Karen was again reminded of how lucky Matt was. Left untreated it would’ve been worse, but the wound was very moderate. There were no signs of inflammation.

Now, she had to be careful. If her bandaging was sloppier than Arthur’s then Matt would know she lied to him. She took her time changing the bandage, replicating Arthur’s precision remarkably well.

“Can you keep a secret?” Matt asked as she pinned the cloth into place.

She glanced up, brushing her long fringe from her eyes. “Of course I can keep a secret.”

“I owe you some explanation after everything you’ve done for me.” He ran a hand over his short hair. “I’m going to explain why I asked you not to tell anyone I was here. I’m officially … not here. Not in London at all. Very few people know I’m here and it has to stay that way. It’s important. And if you’re wondering why somebody so top-secret risked detection by wandering around London at night … it’s because of your message, Karen. It’s very important.” He spoke quickly, cutting her off. “Your handler had no idea who exactly your contact was. He wouldn’t be cleared, but if you tell him I was here, if you tell him my name, it would be a catastrophic breach of security.”

And here lay an enormous problem with the clandestine rebellion. Operatives were kept isolated from one another for their own safety. It was a strict need-to-know basis. Karen knew of several people involved, but Arthur was the only one she could contact at her own liberty, and that was because they’d been friends almost all their lives. She felt she could trust Matt, a baseless instinct, but she needed to verify his story. Yet she could do nothing, not even contact Arthur. Her hands were tied.

“Then … you need to have someone call my handler and explain the least of which they could know. You’d better do it fast. I can’t accept anything as official unless it comes that person.”

“You’re good,” Matt grudgingly admitted, approving her decision. “And you’re right. It has to go through the right channels. Is my phone handy?”

Satisfied, Karen turned her back and opened the dresser drawer. This was what she’d hoped for. A simple explanation, everyone would be okay, and she wouldn’t have to agonise over truth and lies. She picked up his phone and faced Matt.

What she saw did not make sense at first. Karen just couldn’t understand where he’d gotten the gun from and why he was pointing it at her. Reality rushed home only when he switched the safety off. He held it in his right hand and the barrel was almost steady.

“I’m sorry Karen, but I really do need that message.”


	3. III

Matt had played his part too well. The shock on Karen’s face assured him of that. In an instant, she understood how wrong she’d been, that this was potentially the mistake of her life. It likely was.

Her eyes moved from the little (though powerful) barrel to his eyes. She was afraid yet composed. Matt had to admire her courage.

“You’re not Revival,” she said flatly.

“No.”

“Are you going to kill me tonight?”

“That depends on you. Toss the phone on the bed.”

Matt didn’t want to conduct business in his underwear. He glanced around the bedroom but it looked, unfortunately, overwhelmingly feminine.

“I’m going to need some clothes. Are mine gone?”

“Yeah … I had to cut them off you.”

“Got anything else?”

She nodded.

“Where? Point.”

It took her two tries, but Karen managed to raise her arm and point to the wardrobe. In a perfect world he’d retrieve the clothes himself in case there were any surprises waiting inside. Unfortunately, he was having enough trouble just sitting upright.

“Men’s clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s dead.”

A common story in their world. Matt took a deep breath and was almost dazzled by the pain in his shoulder. He talked quickly through it.

“Karen. We both know I’m wounded. But this is important, so listen carefully – I’m a very good shot. You really don’t want to challenge that, understand? I know what goes through the head when somebody’s got a gun pointed at you. You think you can get the drop on them, that you might have the chance to change it round … but I’m giving you this one warning. There is no chance, and if you try, I will shoot you. Say you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Bring me something to wear. Please.”

He patiently waited for her to find her feet. Then he watched her like a hawk as she crossed to the wardrobe. It was an old, wooden, two-door affair with plenty of personality. She pressed the tip of her toe to the shoe drawer and opened the left side with a little bump – clearly, there was a knack to it.

Women’s clothes dangled from mismatched coat hangers. Wedged at the bottom were four or five white plastic bags.

“Open one over here, in front of me.”

Karen chose a bag and carried it to him. He could see her fingers shaking as she placed it on the bed and tried the knot.

“Take your time,” he said as kindly as possible. Karen glanced up, looking almost as startled by the tenderness in his tone as she had by the weapon in his hand. Then, she turned back to the bag. She unpicked the knot more slowly but her fingers did not tremble any less.

The plastic crinkled when she finally opened it up. Inside was a neat pile of folded men’s clothing.

“Take the things out, one by one,” Matt instructed.

He kept the gun more or less levelled at Karen – a relaxed grip, yet a constant reminder of what would happen if she misbehaved. Karen reverently laid out each article. Dead man’s clothes. It occurred to Matt that, if she hadn’t come to hate him already, she definitely would once he was dressed. She loved whoever had worn these clothes. They had been kept in meticulously good condition. He chose a pair of jeans and a black casual shirt. He hated what would come next … and Karen would hate it even more.

He couldn’t dress himself. Matt looked up, met her eye and saw her get it.

“I don’t – “

“Karen,” he said firmly, determined to get through to her, “the worst I’ll do is shoot you. Okay?”

She looked neither convinced nor reassured. Matt couldn’t say he blamed her. 

“Remember what I said about challenging me.”

Matt got up under his own power. He gripped the wooden bedhead with his free hand and waited for the dizziness to pass. When he felt steadier, he gestured to the jeans with his gun. She unfolded them very slowly. Karen rolled up one leg and with the greatest reluctance, lowered herself to her knees. It brought her uncomfortably close to the gun. Matt lifted first one foot for her and then the other. His balance lasted. She drew the denim up his legs. Karen clearly wanted him to take over from here, but Matt wasn’t prepared to compromise himself. They stared into one another’s eyes, wary, tension thickening with every passing second. The only contribution he was prepared to make was to adjust himself – and then he waited for her to do him up.

He could tell by the set of her jaw that she’d made a conscious choice to be brave. Karen was focusing on her anger, which was good for both of them, they’d get exactly nowhere if she went to pieces. Her hands still shook as she pulled up the fly. The sound tore through the quiet room. She buttoned him up with a cross little jerk.

“Easy,” Matt said. He’d also made a conscious choice – to focus on what had to be done, and not on the erotic thoughts that naturally came with an attractive woman, on her knees before him, touching him so intimately.

She was fuming – perhaps that gave her control of her fear. Matt decided to offer her an outlet for the rage in the hope of preventing a foolish move on her part. “You can say what’s on your mind,” he told her.

Karen was humiliated, furious. “Fuck you.”

“Shirt next.”

Matt braced himself for the pain that was sure to follow in shifting his arm. It was worse than he imagined. Karen helped his good arm into the sleeve first. He held the gun in his other hand as tightly as he could, aware of his intense vulnerability, knowing that if Karen wanted to try something this would be when she did it. Tense, he trained his gaze on her, waiting for the first sign of treachery.

It didn’t come, not even when they got his bad arm inside the garment. He gave a wrenching cry of agony, his eyes squeezing shut for a second or two. When he opened them he saw Karen, pale and annoyed, buttoning up his shirt.

“You’ve probably ripped out your stitches.”

“You might have to get out your needle and thread again.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

Her nimble fingers slipped the last button into the eyelet. She stood, unsure of what was to follow now she’d done as he’d asked.

“Thank you.” Matt let his gratitude sink in; she didn’t flinch. “Sit over there.” He indicated to the chair with the gun. His coat still hung over its back, wet and heavy. Karen sat stiffly, knees together, palms on her jeans.

Matt desperately wanted to lie down. He wanted to lie down with those painkillers coursing through his veins, lulled into a long, peaceful sleep. That was impossible, now. He had to focus.

“You work for the Government,” Karen stated.

“Yeah. I do.”

“Did you kill my contact?”

Technically, he was supposed to be asking the questions. But he wanted Karen to talk, and this prevented her from clamming up. He sat opposite her on the bed, wincing, keeping the gun pointed in her direction.

“No. Maybe your contact shot me.” He paused, taking in her bedroom. “Where are we?”

“My flat.”

His gaze settled on her in gentle warning. “Don’t be coy.”

“402 Holiday Street.”

“I barely remember being brought here,” he admitted. “You did really well to manage it alone.”

His praise was greeted with stony silence. Time to get down to business, then. Gently: “What was the message?”

Karen looked toward the window.

“It doesn’t have to get bad tonight. I really don’t want to hurt you. You’re a good person, I can see you’re a good person. Just give me the message and you’ll be fine. Come on, Karen. It’s that easy.”

“You’ll arrest me,”

Matt saw no point in lying to her. “I’ll have to. I’ll make sure you’re looked after. We can even work out some kind of deal … you could stay here, you wouldn’t have to do any time …”

“Yeah, and I’d have to grass on everyone I’ve ever known, right? Not interested.” Karen leaned slightly forward. Quietly, firmly, she said, “I’m not giving you the message. So you can shoot me here rather than arrest me. I know what it’s like in those rebel prisons.”

“You mean Government prisons, and do you really?” He tried to keep the counterproductive surliness out of his voice, but it was hard.

“Yes, I do, everyone does. “

He exhaled his frustration.

It was April, 2064. London was in ruin. Six years of civil war had ravaged the city, decimating the population and rendering whole areas uninhabitable. The old government and monarchy had been overthrown. A rebel faction had grown in power over long years of oppression had struggled for three years to take control … and now, it was part of Matt’s job to see they secured it. Yet since the new government had assumed power there’d been little of anything that could be called peace. Rebellion had spread across Europe and the world, and there was little help for London. They were on their own to rebuild, and many remembered the days under the old government with a rosier recollection than it deserved. At least they were comfortable, then. At least there were all the hallmarks of a sound, advanced world power. At least their loved ones were still alive …

Not Matt’s. He’d lost them in the Waterloo Station fires some eight years prior. In the ashes, he found his hunger for rebellion.

He belonged to a task force the government called White Hats. They were charged with investigating and exposing ‘undesirables.’ These came in the form of loyalists to the old government and monarchy. Until recently they’d been disorganised rabble … but they had now linked up individual cells and were a serious threat. They called themselves the Revival.

A leak from within the Revival informed the White Hats of a message delivery. Matt’s brief was simple – arrive early at the rendezvous, kill the intended recipient and receive the message in their place. Easy. And it was easy – right up until the figure in the macintosh emerged from shadow and gunned him down.

The war had technically been over for three years, but eliminating the last vestiges of rebellion proved difficult. What made it worse was that he was no longer fighting soldiers. Revivalists were ordinary people, like Karen, living ordinary lives in ordinary flats … pulling bleeding strangers out of the rain …

Since losing his family, Matt had dedicated himself to this cause, believing he really could make things better. Yet every step he took toward peace took him into deeper, darker waters. His enemy were the very people he wanted to save and for every one he exposed yet another, and another, took their place. Now he had come so far he’d no choice except to go on, to justify everything he’d done. The only way he would ever find peace was if London did; on nights like this, he almost wished the bullet had struck him true in a heart long since broken.

Matt looked at his phone.

“This is the part where I report in and backup comes to arrest you.” He glanced around the bedroom. “You’ll never see this place again, of course. They’ll tear it apart. Strip the carpet right off the floor. We’ll vet everyone you know. And you’ll be put in the prison you fear – with good reason – forever.”

“That’s not such a long time.”

“But,” he sighed, “you saved my life. That changes things. Look at you.”

He took a moment to do just that. Karen sat stiffly. He could see the tension in her arms as she pressed her palms to her knees, forcing her body to be still. Her clothes were all old, even threadbare, and her room was one of ancient memory. She was so pale, yet fierce, and even in his position of power he wished he didn’t have to cross her. She was a young woman, lost as he was lost, lonely as he was lonely: he’d recognise that look anywhere.

“You’re not the reason I started fighting.”

He saw the surprise in her eyes – the sudden uncertainty. It was quickly replaced with suspicion. He respected her for that: a few gentle words were not enough to dent her resolve.

Years later, Matt would still not really understand why he did it. He’d lived his life by a set of rules for so long that it seemed impossible that he could stray – yet he was so compelled, so certain, that he would never find it in him to regret.

“You gave me my life. So I’ll give you yours. Pack a bag and go – never come back here. I’ll give you an hour head start. Find your people, get a new identity – disappear.”

Karen stared. “You’re joking.”

“No. This is your one chance. If I see you again …” he let the threat hang.

“You’re trying to trick me.”

“No. I don’t expect you to believe it. So just make good on your hour and go.”

Karen stood. She stared as he turned the barrel of the gun gently aside. Matt could see the question forming on her lips – but what about the message? He’d wanted it badly, but not at the cost of what remained of his honour. Matt gave a small, slow shake of his head.

That was all she needed. Karen sprang into action, snatching a backpack and throwing items inside. He followed when she left the room, though he was quite sure by now that she’d no weapons to speak of.

“You’re bleeding,” she said offhandedly as she pulled on a coat.

Matt touched his borrowed shirt. His hand came away wet with blood – the stitches had broken, after all. He sat on the sofa, suddenly aware the light-headedness had returned.

“Your stitches were rubbish.”

She smiled, then. It was a big, genuine smile which reached her eyes and brought life into the dour flat. There was mystery, a secret in her smile that he did not pretend to understand.

“You’ll miss them.”

Karen hoisted her pack on her shoulders. Her smile evaporated as she gazed around the flat. Matt wondered at the memories in her eyes. She was leaving this life behind forever, paying an unthinkable price for daring to take pity on a stranger.

“Why?” She asked. She placed her keys on a cluttered shelf by the door.

Matt could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The moment she left he’d be right into the painkillers. Why indeed. The decision had been made in an instant. His whole being had centred on retrieving the message for a successful mission, but he knew he could not go through with what it would take to break her. He couldn’t say that. He couldn’t tell Karen that her humanity was so rare, that she had reminded him who he was really fighting. Matt just shook his head.

Karen opened the door. “Forget me.” It closed behind her with a click of finality and her footsteps faded into the night. Matt leaned back. He promised himself a few minutes of rest, then it was to bed with a couple of painkillers … he’d set an alarm to report in …

“Oh no, Karen,” he replied in a delayed, pained whisper, “not you.”


End file.
